Under the Weather
by TheGirlWithGlasses15
Summary: When a BBC weathergirl is murdered, seemingly randomly, it falls to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to solve the mystery of why she was killed.


_**UNDER THE WEATHER**_

**Rated: T for language, and sex and drug references.**

**Enjoy! Reviews are much appreciated.**

...

TUESDAY, 10 PM

"It's going to be a mild day tomorrow in the capital, with sunny spells and highs of 17 degrees," said Phoebe Alexander, smiling pleasantly and indicating London on the map behind her with her left hand.

She clicked the control in her other hand and the image on the screen changed, zooming in on another area of the map of the British Isles. She continued reading from the teleprompter, her eyes briefly flicking over the bearded, overweight cameraman, who was slurping a can of Diet Coke and eyeing her with interest. She ignored him and finished the broadcast in as chipper a manner as she could.

"Back to the studio," she said with a smile.

The buzzer rang after a few seconds. She let her smile drop, and her face ached from the sudden slack. She quickly strode away from the set, before the cameraman could approach her _again. _She admired his dedication on some level, but on the other hand, why couldn't her just leave her alone? A member of the crew made their way over to her and quickly removed her microphone. She thanked him before making her way to her dressing room. She collected her handbag and immediately left the studios. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She eyed the caller ID, _her ex_, before stuffing the still-ringing phone back into the depths of her bag, where it joined keys, coins and an assortment of lipsticks and eyeliners. She turned a corner and saw her destination. She went inside without a second thought and made her way over to the bar. She signalled to the bartender, who'd she had gotten to know recently and therefore was saved from the tedious questions of _'Aren't you that weathergirl for the BBC?' _or _'I've seen you before. Where do I know you from?_

"Cosmopolitan, please," she told the bartender, who soon presented her with a glass of bright pink drink. She took a long sip and exhaled deeply. She realised that going to a bar and drinking cocktails all night every night of the week probably wasn't the best thing to be doing in the long run, but she got over that kind of thinking after her third drink. Life should be going well for her, she mused. She was considered by her peers to have a good job, earn good money and to be an attractive woman. But yet she still found herself in a bar in the middle of London after filming the weather forecast segment for the 10 O'Clock news.

She supposed that was part of the problem. She'd wanted to get into television ever since she was little. When she was 22, she'd snagged the weathergirl job, in the hopes that she'd be spotted by someone and eventually become an actress. The thought was naive and childish, she knew that, but her parents had always encouraged her to follow her dreams. Eventually she realised that reading the weather forecast was not going to help her become an actress, but she needed money, and couldn't quit to go and pursue a career that was most likely to crash and burn. So here she was, recently turned 30 years old and still stuck as supposed 'eye candy' waving her hands around at a screen to tell people mostly wrong weather predictions. What was worse, she'd overheard the producers talking about the possibility of replacing her. Apparently she was getting a bit too old to be a weathergirl. That was when the drinking started two months ago.

Phoebe rested her head on the bar. She was completely three sheets to the wind now, she could feel her head becoming blissfully clear. The bartender took her empty glass away, and muttered that he was cutting her off.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, hearing the slur in her words.

"Twenty seven fifty," he replied, taking the proffered money. "Don't drive," he added as an afterthought.

Phoebe rolled her eyes at him before leaving the bar. She swayed on her stilettos as she walked down the street in search of a cab. The streets were practically deserted at this late hour. She swore and decided to head back to her flat and grab any cab that she saw on the way. She walked for a few minutes, the alcohol slowing her down. Her head was spinning from the glaze of drinking and her feet were killing her. She stood still for a moment, breathing in and out.

That was when someone grabbed her from behind. She was about to scream, when a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Don't struggle," a voice growled in her ear. "It will only be worse if you struggle."

In an alcohol fuelled fit of bravery, she stamped on her attacker's foot hard. She had to yank the heel of her shoe out of flesh before trying to run away. She couldn't go very quickly, but she prayed that the wound she'd inflicted would count in her favour. She was running out of road, and she looked behind her. She was being pursued. She ran quickly in an alleyway, hoping to hide from view. She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly sobered up. She heard footsteps and dared to turn her head around a fraction of an inch. Her ploy hadn't worked.

"There you are," the same terrible voice said. Phoebe bolted down the alley, hoping to find a door somewhere that she could escape through. She only found a tall metal gate, blocking her way. She rattled the metal wiring in desperation, letting a terrified scream escape her. A shadow formed in her peripheral vision, and she turned around to accept her fate. The moonlight shone through into the alley, glinting off of a knife, which was getting nearer to her. The attacker drew closer. Closer. Phoebe shut her eyes again, not wanting to watch. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. A tear slid down her cheek.

The knife was plunged into her chest. Pain smarted across where she'd been stabbed, but it didn't last long. As soon as her heart was ruptured, she collapsed to the ground, and there was nothing but darkness. The man slid the knife into his jacket pocket and gazed down at the body lying on the ground at his feet. He bent down and smoothed a lock of blonde hair away from her face.

"I'm so sorry, Phoebe," he whispered, before getting up and leaving the alley.

...

WEDNESDAY, 2:30 PM

"_Pull!"_

**SMASH**

John wondered briefly how he had gotten here. Into this_ ridiculous_ situation. He remembered leaving the surgery early at around lunchtime, (which was rare and very much appreciated), and planned to go home and put his feet up with a nice cup of tea and some biscuits. He remembered saying goodbye to Sarah with a bit of harmless flirting. He remembered his phone chirping in his pocket and he remembered seeing that he had a message from-

Yes, that's exactly how he'd gotten here.

_Hyde Park. Come at once if convenient._

_-SH_

John rolled his eyes and fired back a reply, before he'd be sent the inevitable other half of Sherlock's calling card and be left with no option. _If convenient, my arse, _he thought.

_Why?_

He waited for a few seconds, amusing himself by imagining Sherlock having to erase his already prepped message in frustration. The reply came swiftly.

_Bring a gun, my hands are full._

_-SH_

John's curiosity was piqued.

_What with?_

The reply was instant, and John cursed his predictability. Any whiff of some kind of excitement, intrigue or danger and he went running. He then cursed Sherlock for making this habit of his worse.

_Wait and see. _

_-SH_

John groaned, but he knew that they both knew that having a sit down with a cup of tea and some biscuits was out the window. He made his way to the train station, grousing slightly at how easily he could be manipulated.

_On way now. Be ten minutes tops._

That was how John found himself standing in a large stretch of Hyde Park standing next to a large cardboard box full of mugs, plates and other items of crockery, throwing them every so often into the air to be shot at for what Sherlock called 'target practise.' John had protested for a good ten minutes about the stupidity of this exercise and how one should _not_ shoot things in public and where the _hell_ did Sherlock get all the crockery from anyway and that if this was the crockery from their flat that Sherlock was in for a _world_ of pain and that John would be _damned_ if he was going to go and buy more _bloody _crockery.

Sherlock had merely raised an eyebrow at John's tirade before pointing out that there was no-one around apart from a copulating couple in the shrubbery a good mile away, and they were far too distracted to notice a little gunfire, and that Mrs Hudson was getting rid of all of her old crockery in favour of a new set that was gifted to her from her sister. This had mollified John a bit before Sherlock dealt the fatal blow.

"You can have a go as well, if you like."

And so, here they were. In a very public park participating in a most likely illegal close range target practise with Mrs Hudson's old plates. And mugs. Sherlock was doing pretty well, if the shards littering the grass were anything to go by.

"_Pull!" _he shouted. John obediently threw another mug into the air. Sherlock fired at it, the bullet ripped through the curved edge and the remains fell to the ground. Sherlock smiled, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

"How many are left?"

John peered into the box. "Three plates and two mugs," he replied.

Sherlock held the gun out to him. "Your turn."

John grinned and took the gun without hesitation. He was there now, he might as well have a bit of fun.

"Ready?" he asked, finding a comfortable grip on the gun.

"Ready," Sherlock replied, choosing a rather hideous floral patterned plate to throw.

"_Pull!"_

...

WEDNESDAY, 4PM

After depositing the broken pieces of crockery and the cardboard box in a nearby skip, John and Sherlock headed back to the flat. Sherlock was moaning because he'd cut his hand on a piece of plate debris. John was smug because not only had he told Sherlock to be careful, but because of his own rather bloody brilliant shooting. They trudged up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. John headed straight for the kitchen, having only had a light lunch at the surgery before being dragged to the park. Sherlock had draped himself on the sofa and was inspecting the wound on his hand. A few minutes later, John placed a cup of tea in front of him.

"If you're thinking of doing some kind of experiment on the kind of lacerations that can be made by cutting yourself on smashed household objects, please give me some kind of warning before body parts end up strewn all over the flat," he said, eyeing Sherlock warningly.

Sherlock smirked at him and reached for his phone. "I didn't realise I was so predictable. I'm asking Molly now if she has any hands going spare. Consider that your warning."

John paled slightly at the thought of a row of hands possibly being strung up along the ceiling, waving at him every time he went into the kitchen.

Sherlock was about to text Molly about the possibility of procuring the aforementioned hands when he noticed the plethora of texts and missed calls glaring at him from the screen. He'd been largely ignoring his phone all day in favour of target practise. A smile crossed his face when he noticed that all of the texts and missed calls (bar one from Mycroft being annoying, who _knew _that his brother didn't care for banal greetings such as 'How are you?') were from Lestrade. As if on cue, the phone rang again, and Sherlock picked up instantly.

"Lestrade. Where are we meeting you?"

"Nice of you to finally pick up," was the snide reply.

"Yes, yes, I'm desperately sorry, now do you need my help or not?"

There was a sigh of exasperation over the phone. "I do. I've already text you the address, be there as quickly as you can."

With that, Lestrade quickly hung up. Sherlock grinned and headed for the door, grabbing his coat and scarf.

"No time to finish your tea, John," he said, his eyes gleaming. "There's been a murder."

...

WEDNESDAY, 4:30 PM

They arrived at the crime scene in just under half an hour. Lestrade walked over to them immediately.

"So, any reason why you ignored me for the best part of two hours earlier?" he asked.

Sherlock was already scanning the area. "John and I were busy," he replied shortly, before walking over to the area cordoned off by police tape.

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at John, a smile tugging at his lips.

"It's not what it sounds like," John assured him, as they followed Sherlock.

Lestrade lifted the tape and the three of them began to walk down the alleyway, where the body lay.

"The victim was female, in her late twenties, early thirties, we'd say. Killed by a stab wound to the chest," he told them as they reached the body. "Have at it, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him, but knelt down and began inspecting the body.

Lestrade turned to John. "What happened to Sherlock's hand?" he asked.

"Why?" John replied somewhat defensively, realising that mentioning their illegal afternoon activity to a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard was not the smartest idea, and wanting to stop this line of conversation.

Lestrade looked taken aback. "I was just wondering if he was alright."

"Oh. He probably just knocked something over and accidentally cut himself," John lied, hopefully smoothly. "He's fine."

"Right," said Lestrade, not believing him at all, but letting it slide.

Sherlock stood up drawing attention back to himself and the dead woman.

"What have you got?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth ready to rattle off various things about the dead woman, when John interrupted.

"She's the weathergirl for the BBC."

Sherlock and Lestrade both snapped their heads around to look at him. Lestrade looked shocked, Sherlock immensely pleased.

"How could you tell?" Sherlock pressed. "Her carefully chosen attire, her heavy make-up?"

"No, I, uh, recognised her."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his face fell. "Of course you did. She's the one you find particularly attractive, isn't she?"

John blushed. "Maybe."

Sherlock sighed. "That's disappointing. Tell me what happened to her, then. Do not say _she died._"

John glared at him before leaning over the woman. He studied the wound. "She was stabbed through the chest, with a knife, and she was killed by the weapon puncturing her heart. It was a relatively swift death."

"Yes, no-one cares about that, carry on," Sherlock prompted.

"She'd been drinking recently, I can smell it on her," John ran his eyes down the corpse once more. "That's it."

He stood up and walked over to the other two men, the taller of whom was looking at him with an air of vague disappointment.

"Sherlock, anything to add?" Lestrade asked, breaking him from his glare at John.

Sherlock scoffed. "Her name was Phoebe Alexander, she was thirty years old, dyed her hair blonde regularly and got regular manicures. She was, as John said, a weathergirl for the BBC, she recently split up from her partner and received unwanted attention from the cameraman. She was also on the brink of getting fired, which upset her, despite the fact that she was bored with her job and never actually wanted to be a weathergirl. Actress, I would say was the pipe dream. She filmed her segment for the 10 O'Clock news yesterday night before quickly leaving the studio to go a bar not far from her work, which had recently become a habit of hers. She drank five cocktails before the bartender made her leave. She began to walk back to her home before she was apprehended by the killer. She managed to wound him, and ran off down an alleyway, presumably to escape, but he followed her, yes, our killer is male, bootprint at the top of the alleyway told me that, combined with the strength needed to drive the blade through the rib cage to kill the victim. Questions?"

"How did you know about the being an actress, splitting up with her partner and the cameraman?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Her left ring finger has a thin tan line. She was engaged, but recently they split up, he cheated on her. I knew about her wanting to be an actress because of her current choice of employment, being on television regularly, and her scrupulous dedication to self-image. Despite this, she's wearing rather demure clothes, so she was trying to deter attention from someone. Who would look at her the most while she was working? Cameraman."

"Getting fired? Bored with her job?" John asked.

"Why else would she be drinking straight after work?"

John laughed, shaking his head. "Brilliant."

Sherlock smiled at him.

"Although," John said, "I do have one more question."

"What is it?"

"Why was she killed?"

"That, my dear Watson, is an excellent question."

"Do you know the answer?" Lestrade cut in, looking hopeful.

Sherlock beamed. "Not at all, but I'm excited to work it out. I'll text you if I figure anything out. There might be some DNA that you could use from the speck of blood on the heel of Miss Alexander's shoe, but I wouldn't count on there being much, the killer was wearing heavy boots. In the meantime, I'll be looking into her family and colleagues for a motive. I'll question the cameraman, find the bartender and ask him what he knows about the victim. Text me all the information about where to find them!" he called as he made his way back down the alley.

"Why can't you do that yourself?" Lestrade called back.

"It's your job, Detective Inspector, you need to be in some legwork!" was the reply, before he disappeared from view.

"Cheeky fucker," Lestrade muttered.

John chuckled. "I'd better go, too. See you, Greg."

"Bye, mate. Oh, and John?"

"Yeah?"

"I understand why you were a bit cagey about what you and Sherlock did this afternoon," Lestrade said, a bit uneasily, but in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

John was a bit taken aback. "Really?"

"Sure. But don't worry, I'm not going to pry or tell anyone about it."

John blinked at him in surprise. But he was relieved. Greg really was a true mate for not making him and Sherlock go to prison.

"Thanks, Greg. That's really decent of you," said John, before he followed Sherlock out of the alley.

Lestrade chuckled to himself. Donovan owed him _so _much money.

...

THURSDAY, 8AM

John woke up to find Sherlock standing at the end of his bed, typing on his mobile, his shadow looming over the duvet. John jumped out of his skin and swore.

"Good morning to you too, John," Sherlock deadpanned, his eyes not leaving the screen of his phone.

"Christ, you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack. What time is it?" John rubbed at his eyes. "What are you doing in my room? How long have you been here?"

"Eight o'clock," said Sherlock, just as the alarm clock on the bedside table went off. "I've been here for about twenty minutes, waiting for you to finish your cycle of REM sleep. I wasn't watching you, if that's what you're so querulous about."

John blinked sleep out of his eyes. "What?"

Sherlock's mouth opened, ready to spew out a dictionary definition. It was far too early for that in John's opinion.

"Never mind," he interrupted hastily. "Why are you here?"

"Lestrade texted me Phoebe Alexander's address. We're meeting her relatives and ex-fiancé at her apartment."

John swung his body out of bed. "We? Sherlock, I have to go to work."

Sherlock paused for a second, evaluating his options. He could go down one of two paths. One: Pleading John to accompany him to what was most likely to be a very tedious outing, where he'd have to pretend to sobbing relatives that he was _so sorry for_ _their loss._ Two: Bullying John into going by launching into a diatribe about the case and how John's work was feckless and generally brow beating John until he agreed to come with him just to get him to shut up.

He decided to go with the first option. John always told him that he'd 'catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,' (of course, the first time he heard this phrase, Sherlock did an experiment to get conclusive proof that this was, indeed, correct. John wasn't pleased with the sudden influx of flying houseguests.) Plus, it was eight am, and whilst Sherlock was perfectly capable of a Filibuster-esque persuasion to get his flatmate to join him, he couldn't really be bothered. Pleading it was.

"Please, John," he said, schooling his features in one which nearly always got John to do as he asked. "I could really use your help. You know I'm not very good at talking to grieving family members, that's your strong point."

John pinched the bridge of nose and sighed. Sherlock inwardly smirked, knowing he was just seconds away from agreeing. He really was very easy to manipulate. Feed his ego or say the word 'danger!' and John Watson would come running.

"Fine," said John. "But I'm making toast before we go, and you are going to have some as well."

Sherlock bowed his head in acquiescence. "I'll leave you to get ready."

"I can see you smirking, by the way."

Sherlock snapped his head back up. "Never," he said, his eyes betraying his statement, "Call Sarah then. Chop, chop."

Then he snuck out of the room, missing a pillow projectile thrown by John by mere centimetres. He snickered to himself, and headed to the living room to wait for John.

...

THURSDAY, 9AM

After a seemingly endless cab ride (John insisted they stop for coffee en route), they arrived at Phoebe Alexander's apartment block. Sherlock pressed the buzzer labelled 'Alexander.'

"Hello?" came a voice. It was thick from crying, and somewhat snuffly. "Who's there?"

_The younger sister, _thought Sherlock. _A young female voice, still living with her parents at the family home. Not used to the intercom system present in many London flats._

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm investigating the murder of Phoebe Alexander for the Metropolitan Police. I believe you're expecting me?" he said, in as light a tone as he could manage. John nodded his approval.

"Oh. Yes, Mr Holmes, of course. My parents said that we'd need to talk to the police."

_Obviously, _Sherlock mouthed.

John glared at him. _Be nice, _he mouthed back.

The intercom buzzed as the door to the building opened. They made their way to the lift.

"What floor?" John asked.

"Four," Sherlock replied curtly, jabbing a finger at the correct button. The metal doors began to close, when there was a shout.

"Hold the doors!"

John reached to halt the doors, when a man came jogging towards the lift. Sherlock immediately scanned him with his eyes._ Lawyer, thirty-three. Heavy smoker. Drank a large filter coffee (Irish) and ate a sugar doughnut for breakfast. Expensive watch, suit and hair cut. Image conscious. Eyes puffy. He'd been crying recently._

"Floor?" asked John.

"Four, please," the man replied. John let the doors close, and the lift began to rise.

Sherlock grinned. _The ex-fiancé. Obviously. _"Running late?" he enquired.

"Yeah, I'm headed to my ex's flat. She was stabbed a couple of nights ago, and I've been called in to be questioned by some famous detective. Her little sister's ever so excited," he said, shaking his head vaguely.

John exchanged a look with Sherlock. "Well, I'm sorry to hear about your ex," he said.

The man smiled. "Ta. It's just difficult, y'know? She broke up with me recently, found out I'd been cheating. I've been trying to get her back for a while, I felt bad about the affair, I was drunk for most of it and it didn't mean anything. Now that she's gone, I'm not really sure what to do. The woman I was seeing contacted me, and I'm considering hooking up with her again, but would it be fair to Pheebs?"

"No," Sherlock replied simply, as the lift doors opened. The three men stepped out.

"So, where are you headed anyway?" the man asked, looking a bit wide-eyed at Sherlock's brutal candour. Sherlock smiled mysteriously and walked over to flat 4A. He knocked at the door. It opened swiftly, and a blonde girl, who couldn't have been older than sixteen stood in the doorway.

"Mr Holmes?" she asked, somewhat nervously.

"Yes."

"Right, we spoke on the, er, intercom. Come in."

She moved away to let them enter. She spotted John. "Hello Dr Watson," she said.

John looked a little taken aback, but took it in his stride. "Hello."

"I read the blog," she said, by way of explanation. "I'm a big fan of both of you."

John smiled kindly at her.

"He looks different without the hat," she mused, indicating Sherlock, who visibly bristled. John snickered.

They were interrupted by the rest of the family, _widowed mother and the older sister,_ standing up and coming over to the doorway. They shook Sherlock and John's hands, greeting them.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson."

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, such a pleasure," said the mother, "Call me Marjorie, and these are my other daughters, Meredith and Chelsea."

"Nice to meet you," said John, while Sherlock just nodded in acknowledgement.

"Jeremy?" the older sister interjected, looking at the other man in the doorway, looking slightly shell shocked at his ranting in the lift to the said famous detective.

"Hi, Mer," he replied, closing the door to the apartment.

"Shall we move over to the sofas?" Mrs Alexander asked, ushering them all away from the door. "Can I get either of you a drink? Tea, coffee..."

"No, thank you," said Sherlock, briskly. He was keen to end this quickly.

They all settled down. Sherlock noticed that Jeremy and the older sister were sitting rather close together.

"So, can any of you think of anyone who would want to kill Phoebe?" he said.

There was instant upset. John glared at Sherlock.

"You'll have to excuse me. He's not good at talking to people. What he meant was, we're very sorry for your loss, and we ask for your co-operation and help in bringing Phoebe's killer to justice."

This calmed them down and John smiled contentedly. Sherlock waved a hand to indicate he should continue.

"So, what can you tell me about Phoebe? Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her?"

The mother, Marjorie, shook her head. "I don't know. She was doing spectacularly well when we saw her. Good job, steady relationship, earning a good living. She took good care of herself. She was always dressed in designer labels and jewellery whenever we saw her."

"What about at work and outside of it. Did she have any close friends or enemies?" John pressed.

"A few friends," said the older sister. "Just people she hung out with, but I don't think she had anyone she was really close to."

"What about romantic partners?" Sherlock put in, fixing the older sister with a harsh look.

"Well, she'd been with Jeremy for about five years. They got engaged about eighteen months ago."

"Yes, and when did the two of you start sleeping together?"

Her mouth dropped open. "W-What? That's preposterous."

"_Sherlock,"_ John hissed.

"My apologies, although thank you for confirming my suspicions about the two of you."

"Mr Holmes, I don't know _what _you think you're insinuating between myself and my late fiancé's sister, but..."

Sherlock cut him off. "You know exactly what I'm insinuating. What I'm pointing out, in fact. You and Meredith Alexander were having an affair, and recently, Phoebe found out and left you. You said you'd been trying to get her back, unsuccessfully, clearly, and now you're debating whether or not to pursue a relationship with Meredith properly because you're ashamed and don't want to admit about your previous illicit relationship whilst engaged to Phoebe, to the rest of the family. You told me that you cheated in the lift, I might add. I simply identified the other participant."

Meredith's face was beet red. Jeremy was stuttering in horror.

"Mr Holmes, I think you should leave," Marjorie said, her face stony as she stared at her oldest daughter.

"I was planning to. I have everything I need here. None of you killed Phoebe Alexander, and quite frankly, I think she's better off dead with a family like this. Annoying younger sister, a mother who was secretly stealing from her, and a fiancé having an affair with her older sister. Although you're all clearly dysfunctional, I don't believe any of you had a motive to kill Phoebe. We're done here. Come along, John."

Sherlock flung the door open and swept out of the flat. The family all gaped at John.

"Thank you very much for your time," he said, smiling winningly.

"_JOHN!"_

John waved jauntily at the family before heading back to the lift where Sherlock was waiting. When they got in the lift, they exchanged looks. After approximately three seconds, they both burst into peals of laughter.

"Did-did you see their _faces?_" John gasped between guffaws.

"I know. If you're going to be so idiotic as to sleep with your fiancé's sister, you deserve consequences. What a horrible family. I thought Mycroft was bad."

"I don't know, the little sister was quite sweet."

"Just because she mentioned _the hat,_" Sherlock groused, making John laugh even more.

After leaving the building and hailing a cab, did they begin to calm down.

"So, what next?" asked John. "We've established that none of the family killed her."

Sherlock looked up from his phone, where he had been texting Lestrade. "Next, we interview the bartender to see if he has any information. Then we go after the cameraman."

"Alright. Can we stop for lunch at some point?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Fine, but I'm not eating. I can feel my mind slowing down as I'm digesting that piece of cranial decline."

"You mean toast?" John sniggered.

"Obviously."

...

THURSDAY, 12PM

The bar was empty, but open. The chairs were all taken down from atop the tables, and the bartender was cleaning glasses ready for patrons to visit at lunchtime.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I'm going to be much help," said the bartender, once Sherlock had clarified that he had been the one to serve drinks to the victim on the night of her death and the ones preceding it, and had told him about the investigation. "Have you spoken to her family?"

John stamped on Sherlock's foot before he could make a scathing retort.

"Yes, we just went to see them. They said nothing that we couldn't work out for ourselves," John demurred.

"Right, well, I don't know much," the bartender replied, scratching his neck with his index finger.

"Oh, I doubt that," said Sherlock, "Drunk people like to chat, I'm sure you know plenty. Shall we begin?"

The bartender shrugged.

"How often did Phoebe come to this bar?" Sherlock asked.

"Pretty much every night. She'd film her bit for the news at just after 10, and then she left work and came here. I could pretty much map out her routine. We had the news on the TV up there, see?" he indicated the flat screen next to the bar, " and as soon as she was finished, there would be around fifteen minutes before she ended up here."

"When did she start drinking here?" Sherlock pressed.

"Regularly? Around two months ago, but I remember her coming here occasionally before that with her friends."

"Did Miss Alexander say anything to you while intoxicated that would imply that she was in any kind of danger?"

The bartender pursed his lips in thought. "Not that I can recall. She just seemed a bit at odds with her job. She'd often complain that they were going to fire her because she was getting old."

John raised his eyebrows.

"I know, ridiculous, right? She couldn't have been much out of her twenties, although drinking the amount she did was not going to help her out at all," the bartender placed the now clean glass on the shelf behind the bar.

"Is there anything else?"

"She once said something about the cameraman, if I remember rightly?"

"What did she say?"

"That he got a bit stare-y while she was working, and kept trying to ask her out. She made it sound like more of a nuisance rather than immediate danger, but it might help you out, anyway."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, thank you very much for your time."

"Sure. I work here every night on weekdays, if you need anything else."

"Thank you," said John, before they left the bar. "So," he addressed Sherlock, "Cameraman?"

"Cameraman."

...

THURSDAY, 12:20PM

Sherlock was getting frustrated. The receptionist at the BBC Studios was being extremely uncooperative. What part of _murder investigation _did she not understand? He'd waved Lestrade's ID in front of her face for emphasis, but she still refused to comply with his requests.

"I thought your name was Sherlock Holmes?" she'd remarked upon seeing the ID. Her heavily pencilled eyebrows drew together.

"My name is not important," said Sherlock, "what is important is looking into who murdered Phoebe Alexander, and without the name of the cameraman, I cannot continue my investigation."

The receptionist sighed. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out names of our crew to random people. Police officers, yes, but you've shown me that you are _not _a police officer. If the real DI Lestrade or other police officer showed up to corroborate your request, yes, fine, the files are yours to browse, but for now, no. Goodbye. I have work to do."

She waved them away with a shoo-ing motion and an irked look.

Sherlock glared at her once more before dragging John outside.

"I told you that name-dropping wouldn't help," John remarked.

Sherlock looked daggers at him, and punched Lestrade's number into his phone. After a five minute long imploration for him to come and meet them, he hung up. He stormed over to a nearby bench and sat down. John rubbed the nape of his neck in distress. A full- fledged Sherlockian sulk was looming, and John was dreading it. A few minutes later and there was still no sign of Lestrade. John had distanced himself as far as possible from Sherlock, who was lying on the bench, his fingers steepled under his chin. Admittedly, there wasn't really anywhere to go apart from sitting on a nearby wall. John couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade was going to turn up. Surely, he was busy already to come down to BBC Studios at Sherlock's whim. A few moments later, and John's ponderings were confirmed.

There was the click of high heels on the pavement. Sherlock heard them and knew _exactly _what was coming next. He supposed he should have expected it.

"Hello, freak."

"Sergeant Donovan," he replied.

"Freak's boyfriend," she turned to John with a smirk.

John rolled his eyes. "For god's sake."

Sherlock stood up from the bench and made his way over to her. He stood right up close, towering over her in an attempt to be intimidating. To Sally's credit, she didn't flinch and stared him down.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, although he already knew.

"Lestrade's busy. He said, and I quote, 'Tell Sherlock that I do actually have a job that means I can't just bend to his will.' But don't worry, freak, you've got John for that."

Sherlock glared at her. John choked on air.

"Anyway," Sally continued, "apparently you need a police officer to get access to some information. I don't like you, and you don't like me, so let's just get this done, so I can go home."

"Anderson's home?" Sherlock asked, his eyes open mock-innocently.

Sally suggested he go and do something anatomically impossible to himself. John laughed before remembering that he didn't particularly like the woman. But the look on Sherlock's face was just _priceless_.

Thrilled to have made him speechless, Sally turned around and headed for the entrance, with an amused John and thunderous Sherlock following in her wake. She slipped her ID over to the receptionist, who looked vaguely surprised that Sherlock had been telling the truth. Somewhat unsurprisingly, the two women began chatting about him and through common contempt for him, exchanged numbers to go out for a drink to mock him a bit more.

But, the purpose of the enterprise was met. The receptionist searched through the database on her computer and told Sherlock the name of the man who filmed the weather segment for the news. She then told them that he was probably in the studio right now, and she could take them to him. Sherlock suspected that this was due to striking up a friendship with Donovan, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and they all followed her.

"There he is," the receptionist said, pointing to the man fiddling with a camera after they had reached the studio. She told them to show themselves out and that she would text Sally soon. Sherlock strode up to the cameraman, who was sweating profusely under the glare of the studio lighting.

"Shinwell Johnson?" Sherlock asked.

He turned around. "Yeah?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The man paled. John noticed his hand tighten around the camera. He sensed what was about to happen-

He bolted. He dashed through an open door at the back of the set. Sherlock sprinted after him, swiftly followed by John and Sally.

Johnson ran as fast as he could, making it to the car-park of the studios. He gasped for a few ragged breaths. He wasn't in the greatest of shape and did little to no exercise other than walking up and down the stairs of his parent's house. He scrambled in his pockets with meaty hands for his car keys, but it was too late. Sherlock bore down on him, slamming him onto the bonnet of his car. John and Sally were hot on heels and soon arrived in the car-park. Sally reached for her belt and withdrew a set of handcuffs, slapping them on his wrists.

"Shinwell Johnson, you're under arrest for the murder of Phoebe Alexander. We're going to take you in for questioning."

"But I didn't kill her!" he protested, feebly.

"Shut up, if you know what's good for you. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law."

With the help of John and Sherlock, Sally pulled him over to the police car that she arrived in. She pushed him into the backseat and strapped him in, not allowing him to get out, and ignoring his pleas.

"Shotgun," John said, quickly. Sherlock looked confused.

Sally smirked at him. "It means that you're stuck in the backseat with Porky."

John climbed into the front passenger seat while Sherlock reluctantly climbed into the backseat. Once Sally was seated, she turned around to sneer at him.

"I always thought that one day you'd be sitting in the back of a police car. I just imagined you'd be the one wearing handcuffs."

"Save your clandestine thoughts about handcuffs for Anderson," he retorted.

Sally turned back to start the car without comment.

...

THURSDAY, 1PM

Sherlock was watching the cameraman through the one way glass at Scotland Yard. He was sat in a chair, while Donovan questioned him, although she knew _nothing _about the case. But he hadn't been allowed to conduct it himself. John was standing next to him, watching the scene. The man had burst into tears and was pleading his innocence.

"I don't think he did it," said John. "Look at him, he's a mess."

"Yes, dealing and doing drugs will do that to you," Sherlock remarked.

"What?"

"You didn't notice? He's been working, so had no time for a fix. He's sweating profusely, and look at his eyes, completely bloodshot. He's your average user, certainly, flabby, uninspiring job, no girlfriend, still lives with his parents, but there's more than that. Being a cameraman probably doesn't pay all that well, but do you see his watch? That brand is notoriously expensive. How did he get it? He certainly wouldn't earn enough just to spend all his money on a posh watch, his parents want him to move out, so wouldn't spoil him with a gift like that and he didn't steal it, he almost certainly lacks the finesse and planning for that. So, the answer is simple. He both deals in and uses cocaine. Possibly something else, as well."

"Fantastic," said John, smiling.

"Simple really, if you observe," he retorted. He then banged on the glass to attract Donovan's attention. She excused herself from Johnson and left the interrogation room.

"What?" she snapped.

"He's not the killer, but you should arrest him for possession and selling of drugs."

Donovan gaped at him, shaking her head.

Sherlock smiled completely falsely at her. "Good day, Sergeant Donovan."

With that, he and John left, and took a cab back to Baker Street.

...

THURSDAY, 10 PM

In hindsight, John should have known that Sherlock would be insufferable. He wasn't quite sure if his friend was in a good mood or bad. On one hand, none of the obvious connections to the victim showed any sign of motive and therefore did not kill her, meaning that the killer was still out there. However, this also meant that Sherlock had to now use that big, brilliant brain of his to work out who the real killer was, and most importantly, to him anyway, _why they killed Phoebe_.

John had ordered a Chinese take-away and was about to push a box of chicken chow mein into Sherlock's hands. He was currently lying on the sofa in his usual thinking position. His eyes were tightly shut, and John see movement behind his eyelids as they darted about.

_In the mind palace_, _clearly,_ John sighed, thinking it was lucky that he hadn't been sent outside (which had happened more times than he cared to count)

"Sherlock," he ventured, wafting the box of noodles near his face to try and break him out of his stupor. "I ordered Chinese."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. An icy scowl was etched across his face.

"I know that," he bit out, "I heard you ordering it on the phone, I heard you going downstairs to collect it and pay the delivery man, I smelt it as you brought it in here. There is no need to state the clearly, _obscenely_ obvious, John."

John was unfazed by the snarling. "Do you want any or not?"

"I. Am. Trying. To. Think."

"Doesn't mean you can't take a break and eat some noodles," John said, wiggling the box in Sherlock's direction. "It might do you some good. Give your brain some fuel."

"If you could desist with the robot analogies, I would appreciate it."

John looked at him pointedly, and thrust the box of noodles into his hand.

"I will if you eat."

John was flabbergasted when Sherlock did actually take the box of chicken chow mein and began to tuck into it with gusto. He was expected a load of noodles dumped on his head, to be perfectly honest. But he sat down in his armchair and ate his own food, infinitely pleased with his accomplishment. Getting Sherlock to eat while on a case.

"John?" Sherlock said, once he had finished his meal, leaning back against the head-rest of the sofa.

"Yes?"

"If I fail to solve this case, I blame you entirely."

John chuckled. "Alright. I do actually have to work tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John. See you in the morning."

"No, you bloody won't, I have work."

Sherlock smirked. "We'll see."

...

FRIDAY, 8AM

"_John_."

"Fuck off, Sherlock."

...

FRIDAY, 3PM

Sherlock was fairly sure that this was all the chicken chow mein's fault, which therefore meant that it was John's fault, for making him eat it. He was in an absolutely foul mood. A brobdingnagian strop. The case didn't make any sense. There was nobody with any motive. When questioned about his interest in the weathergirl, Johnson had replied: "She's fit, and I gave it a few tries. I wasn't harassing her or anything." This had been corroborated by other members of the crew. Sherlock grunted in frustration, casting Johnson out of his head. He was irrelevant. So were the family members. They were just a family full of parasites and troglodytes. Back to important matters.

Why would somebody kill Phoebe Alexander? Who killed her?

Sherlock closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace.

_He opened them again, and he was standing on the shining parquet flooring. A chandelier hung above him, glinting from the afternoon sun shining in through the window. Sherlock headed upstairs to the top floor of the palace. He found the door he was looking for, labelled 'Archive Room' on a smooth gold plaque. He pushed it open and was confronted with the site of hundreds of dusty bookshelves, a few with cobwebs hanging from them. It was a long time since he'd been in here, it was where he filed away things that would most likely never turn out to be useful in the slightest. Namely, it was where he placed things like 'celebrity gossip' and astronomy. That meant that there wasn't much of an organisation system, not like the perfectly co-ordinated library on the ground floor, next to the ballroom. In there, Sherlock need visualise a key word and he'd know which book the information was one. That was where he kept the important things, like chemistry, blood coagulation patterns, languages and how John liked his tea. The Archive Room was ancient, but a perennial feature of the mind palace. It was like a drawer full of random crap that everybody had in their house, the place where everything that didn't really have a place was kept. Sherlock was not looking forward to searching. But he did. He pulled the first book of the shelf, and began looking for anything to do with Phoebe Alexander. Any kind of scandal or something that would provoke her murder. It was going to be a lengthy process. _

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

_Constellations._

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

_Mycroft's birthday._

_Nothing._

_Nothing-_

"Sherlock."

_There was someone speaking to him. Sherlock blinked and waiting for them to speak again._

"Sherlock."

_He focused on the voice. John! Sherlock ran down the stairs and was back in the entrance hall of the palace. He walked outside-_

...

FRIDAY, 5PM

He opened his eyes. John was standing over him.

"Hello, John. Good day at work?"

"It was alright. I didn't get thrown up on, which is always good," he replied, shrugging his jacket off. "How was your day?"

"Still haven't solved the case, if that's what you meant."

"You'll get it eventually. Tea?"

Sherlock waved a hand lackadaisically, which John took to mean yes. He prepared some for the two of them and went to join Sherlock on the sofa. He cast his eye to pages of notes that Sherlock had written, and which were spread haphazardly over the coffee table. He passed the tea over wordlessly.

"The case does not make sense, John," said Sherlock, his hand shaking slightly as he took a sip of tea. "Nobody that she knew has any kind of motive to murder her. The cameraman just fancied her, her fiancé just cheated on her, her older sister just slept with her fiancé, her mother was just stealing from her. They were already committing their personal crimes, they didn't need to kill her. So, why did she die?"

"I don't know."

"The only possible explanation is that it was random. Someone that she didn't know. But people don't just tend to go and stab random women through the heart, do they? If it was truly random, there would most likely have been a sexual assault before the murder, but in this instance, nothing. And she was stabbed through the _heart,_ John. That's a difficult place to get to, through the rib cage. But the heart is a personal thing, and I can't help but think that it's metaphorical. But there were no reports of the victim having any kind of romantic dalliance that would drive the killer to hunt her down and stab her through the heart."

"I have no idea. Maybe she looked like the killer's ex or something," John said, shrugging.

Sherlock snapped his head around to look at him. "Say that again."

"Erm, I said that maybe she looked like the killer's ex."

Sherlock's face brightened instantly. "John! That's fantastic! I've been looking at the case all wrong! This changes everything. Oh, I could kiss you right now."

Sherlock bounced up from the sofa as he went back into the mind palace. After a few minutes of silence, in which John solemnly drank tea, whilst wondering what just happened, he jerked back to reality.

"Last year, a woman aged 32 was killed on the 21st May. Her killer was never found. The year before that, another woman, aged 27 was killed on the 21st May. Her killer was never found. Do you want to know the best part?"

"Not really," John said weakly, knowing what Sherlock's idea of good things about murders was.

"Oh, you do. Both of those women? Their name was Phoebe."

"So, this was the work of a serial killer?"

Sherlock beamed at him. "Isn't it _fantastic? _I _knew _I liked serial killers for a reason."

John smiled back, despite the worrying comment, he was well used to them. "So, time to call Lestrade? Tell him that we've got a motive?"

"Better, John. Once we get the files on those two cold cases, we can extract evidence and find the killer!"

"That is good news. I'll phone Lestrade."

"I'll get my coat."

...

FRIDAY, 6:30PM

_Nearly the weekend_, thought Lestrade, leaning back in his office chair, his feet propped up on the desk. It had been a difficult week. The press hounds were out for blood after the death of that weathergirl. He had been forced to do damage control all week, leaving Sherlock to solve the crime, but feeding him information and back-up (he thought sending Donovan was a spark of Sherlock-worthy bloody _genius)_ whenever it was required. So, technically Lestrade hadn't done any field work, but negotiating with the press was a Herculean task unto itself, and he was looking forward to a well-earned rest over the weekend. He could go home at seven, and was aiming to kill the remaining half hour by reading the newspaper. Then his phone rang.

"John?"

"Hi, Greg, Sherlock's figured the murder out."

"Really, that's fantastic. Who was it? I'll send out a team to arrest the bastard."

"Well, he doesn't know who it was just yet, but-,"

There was the sound of muffled scrabbling and Lestrade heard Sherlock bark imperiously 'Give me the phone, John.'

"Lestrade, we're on the way to the Yard. I need you to get out two cold cases for me. It's a serial killer."

"Oh, bloody hell. No wonder you sound so cheerful. What cases am I digging out?"

Sherlock told him the names and dates and Lestrade wondered why he made everything sound so simple once it was worked out.

"Alright, I'll go and grab them from the archives."

"Excellent. We'll be there in ten minutes. I daresay that we'll have our killer by the end of the night."

With that, Sherlock hung up. Lestrade let his head hit the desk. _So much for going home in half an hour._

...

FRIDAY, 6:45PM

Sherlock had the papers from the cold case spread out over Lestrade's desk. The three murdered Phoebes looking nothing alike, so Sherlock knew it was just the name. They were all found in alleyways after being stabbed through the heart. The serial killer theory was almost certainly correct. But did the killer know them? Sherlock turned his gaze to the autopsy for both of the previously killed women. Alcohol was found in both of their systems. They'd both been drinking. That made sense, the killer would have spoken to them beforehand to find out their names. Drunks talked, after all. The autopsies also said that both women were found with Rohypnol in their systems as well. So the killer drugged them, perhaps by putting it in their drink-

Sherlock blinked. Drink spiking was fairly common, but what if the drink had been given to the women with the drug in it? _The bartender. _He'd insisted that he knew nothing about Phoebe. He certainly would have had the opportunity to spike her drink. What about the other women? He checked the addresses where they were all found. All of them were in close range of a bar. A year between murders was a perfectly reasonable amount of time to switch places of work. It worked, it just depended on the bartender's job records. He called Lestrade in, who called in one of his team, who specialised in personnel. They went through the database of all the citizens of London. In about twenty minutes, they found the bartender, and confirmed that he had switched jobs three times in the last three years, according to his tax reports.

"Time to arrest our killer, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock.

...

FRIDAY, 7:30PM

Charles Milverton stood behind the bar, serving drinks to various patrons. One ordered an apple martini, which made him think of Phoebe. Not the one he had killed a few days ago, the original Phoebe. The one who had taken his heart and smashed it into pieces. He'd fallen hard for her, but she changed her mind. He tried to be strong, and move on, but he couldn't. He never forgiven her, and the next year, on the day that Phoebe had broken up with him, he'd come across a woman with a name tag reading 'Phoebe,' and couldn't help himself. It was fate. He'd drugged her. He'd killed her. The feeling of revenge was electric. On the same day the following year, he met another Phoebe. Fate told him again to find revenge. So he did. He felt something akin to remorse with the third Phoebe. She'd told him all about her troubles, and he'd come to be quite fond of her. But the 21st May came around again, there were no other Phoebes around except for her. He'd had no choice. He apologised to her body afterwards, but it was done.

He had panicked when that tall detective fellow came into the bar a few days after the murder. He'd been as vague as possible, trying to rule himself out as a suspect. He'd had a tequila shot once the detective had left to calm his nerves. He'd gone back to work as best he could. Crime didn't pay after all, and he needed money.

The door to the bar banged open. Charles looked up. _Shit. _

It was the detective, along with the small man in the woolly jumper who was with him before. And about five police officers. Charles looked around for a way out, but he was trapped behind the bar. The tall detective pointed at him, talking to a grey haired police officer. The patrons of the bar all shrank to the walls at the appearance of the police.

"Charles Milverton," said Sherlock. "You lied to me. You knew exactly who killed Phoebe Alexander. It was _you_."

A few patrons gasped, the murder had been reported on the news, after all.

"That's enough, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Remember you're not actually qualified to arrest anybody."

Charles realised he was surrounded. Trying to run away was pointless. He walked out from behind the bar with his hands in the air. A policeman slapped a pair of handcuffs on him.

"You're under arrest for the murders of Phoebe Brown, Phoebe Stirling and Phoebe Alexander. You have the right to remain silent..."

...

FRIDAY, 8PM

Charles Milverton was taken away in the police car, after shooting a filthy look at Sherlock. Sherlock had waved back, prompted a rude hand gesture. John pulled him away before he got attacked.

They were both now standing outside the bar, the patrons having been sent away, as the remaining police officers answered questions.

"Told you you'd get it," said John, coming over to Sherlock.

"Of course I did. I always do."

John laughed, shaking his head. "It's sometimes actually nicer when you don't understand something. Then you don't act so arrogant."

"Act _as _arrogant."

"Arse."

This set them off into giggles.

"We can't giggle at a crime scene, John," Sherlock reminded him, which only made them laugh even harder.

Lestrade came over to the laughing pair. "Good work, Sherlock."

"Thank you," he replied, surprising himself, Lestrade and John.

Lestrade blinked before settling into a smile. "John's good for you, you know. I'm happy for you two."

"What?" John asked.

"Y'know. You two. I told you that I knew the other day, John, don't you remember? At the crime scene?"

John blinked.

"I told you that I wouldn't tell anyone, and it was fine?"

John was struck by a memory.

"_Sure. But don't worry, I'm not going to pry or tell anyone about it."_

_Oh. _John thought. _He didn't understand about the illegal shooting in public. He thought we were-_

John started to laugh again. The two other men looked at him in surprise.

"Sherlock, do you remember the afternoon before we went to the crime scene? In the park?"

"In the park?" Lestrade blurted out incredulously, making John howl with laughter at his tone.

"Yes, I remember," Sherlock replied, looking confused.

"Well, Lestrade told me that he understood why I was a bit defensive about what we were doing that afternoon, because you know that I was a bit worried about it. But it turns out that he really, _really _misunderstood."

Lestrade had gone pale. "So, you weren't...y'know?"

John shook his head. "Nope. Definitely not."

"Oh. Well, what were you doing?"

John smiled enigmatically. "Sherlock, shall we go back to Baker Street? Mrs Hudson will be worrying."

Sherlock got the hint, and they walked away from the bar to a nearby cab rank. Lestrade shook his head. He would never understand those two, and wasn't quite sure he wanted to.

"John?" Sherlock asked as they walked towards the cab.

"Yes?"

"What did Lestrade think we were doing in the park?"

John stopped still in the middle of the pavement.

"You're _kidding _me right?"


End file.
